


Grist for the Rumor Mill

by Omorka



Category: Singin' in the Rain (1952)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:24:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are several good reasons the gossip columnists shouldn't ask Cosmo for quotes about his best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grist for the Rumor Mill

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place just before the events of the movie. No spoilers.

"Ah, the glamour of a movie opening," Cosmo enthused, waving at the searchlights. "The sights! The sounds! The smells! Oh, wait, that's just your poor taste in aftershave." He flung himself back against the seat of the car and grinned like a little boy who just stole a cookie.

Don grinned back, having already taken in everything he cared to about the scene outside. "I'll have you know it has nothing to do with _my_ taste in aftershave."

"Oh? Why's that?" The quirk of Cosmo's mouth was the only sign that he suspected he was feeding Don a straight line.

"The studio wouldn't even let me choose my own." Don smiled, then grimaced. "Seriously, they seem to think I shouldn't be let out in public without a keeper."

"Well, they're certainly right about _that_."

"Thanks, Cosmo, I can always count on you to stick up for me." Don's complaint was met with a pulled face and a stuck-out tongue. "Oh, very mature there, Cos. I can see they've picked someone who'll keep me out of trouble."

"R.F. never said my job was to keep you out of trouble; it's all I can do just to keep you on time." The musician looked out the window again. "Which, I might point out if I were meaner, your co-star sure isn't." Two starlets whose names he ought to know but couldn't remember were prancing up the red carpet, arm in arm. "So what's the deal this time? They're afraid you're going to embarrass them by wearing the wrong cologne? They've sold your contract to Chanel?"

"Get this - they wanted to make sure what I was wearing wouldn't clash with what Lina had picked out." Don rolled his eyes like he was hoping for boxcars. "The tie even had to match her dress."

"Well, at least she didn't choose that frothy lilac number, then." Cosmo's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were considering either how the lilac would look on Don or how the crimson of the tie he was wearing would look on Lina. Either way, he didn't appear pleased about it.

Don reached over and clapped Cosmo's knee. "Is the whole publicity thing bugging you again?"

"It's not the publicity gimmick itself, it's that Lina believes it, and the studio expects me to lie about it." Cosmo glanced back as another limousine pulled up behind them. "Speak of the devil and you hear her lips flapping. It's showtime, Don!"

A pair of gossip columnists were standing at the edge of the tumultuous crowd. Cosmo couldn't remember their names, either, although he recognized both of them. The taller one in the mink stole worked for one of the national magazines, and she surged forward as Don and Lina (who looked better in the crimson than he'd imagined, although even with a careful make-up job it still made her pale) linked arms and strolled up the red carpet to their latest premiere. _A Knight in Old London_ was a trivial mystery story, complete with a dueling scene that added nothing to the plot, set in Elizabethan England. The best thing about it had been the costumes; Don always looked great in doublet and hose. Cosmo grinned to himself and waited until the dazzling duo of Lockwood and Lamont had entered the theater, then started strolling up the carpet himself.

The other rag reporter leaned across the velvet rope. "Aren't you Cosmo Brown?" she asked, sharpened pencil at the ready.

Now, that was new. They didn't normally speak to him, although he knew they must recognize him as someone who worked for the studio. "Yup, that's me. To whom do I have the privilege?"

"Margie Striker, of the _New Film and Radio Review_." Ah, that would be why he didn't know her; the Review had only been in print for a few months. "As a confidante of Mr. Lockwood's, can you give us a quote on his working relationship with Miss Lamont?"

Cosmo knew that what he was supposed to say was that Monumental Pictures didn't permit him to comment. It was mostly true. It was sensible. Of course, that meant that he was almost contractually obligated as a human being and a professional goofball to find something more interesting to tell her. "Well, I'm not _supposed_ to talk about it, of course, but - " he looked around conspiratorially - "things got off to a bit of a rocky start on this film, if you know what I mean." He winked, broadly. "But by the end, they were back on a fully professional footing." Miss Striker jotted down a blizzard of shorthand and smiled at him; it was surprisingly genuine, for a reporter. "Thanks, Mr. Brown. Don't worry, I won't attribute the quote directly to you. Enjoy the film!" She ducked away into the crowd pushing towards the box office.

"Well, if you don't attribute it to me, how am I supposed to get any publicity from it?" Cosmo asked with mock-chagrin to empty air.

\---

"So, how was today's shoot?" Cosmo hadn't managed to make it out to the location they were using today, a dramatic river bluff some distance out of town. Not that Don's current condition, with an encrustation of mud in every joint and crevice, didn't tell him all he needed to know. They were standing in the executive bathroom at Monumental, Don having stormed back into the studio and ignored the dressing room completely. Cosmo was holding a pail of warm, soapy water and a sea sponge he'd swiped from the makeup department.

"Ha ha. Tell Roscoe that the next time he decides he can save money by having me do my own stunts, he needs to remember to send a stunt _costume_. And a larger bucket." Don stripped off the outer jacket of what was supposed to be a 1600s French naval uniform; Cosmo wondered if any uniform anywhere in the world really had that much gold braid on it. "Why do you want me to tell him?" he asked. "The only time he listens to me is when he wants me to pick up the tempo." He was also pretty sure those near-skin-tight pants were out of period. Not that it mattered; they were thoroughly coated in the thick, silty mud, and Don was peeling himself out of them. Apparently, they hadn't even had faux period underwear, as Don wasn't wearing any underneath. Period, modern, or otherwise. Cosmo set the bucket and sponge down and glanced away.

"Hey, no false modesty here. We've shared too many dressing rooms in too many tiny vaudeville venues that used to be barns for that." Don dipped the sponge into the bucket and began scrubbing. Little rivulets of muddy water ran across the floor of the men's room into an offset drain. Cosmo watched one of them, mentally tracing it back across the tiles and up those supremely muscular legs, to - no, he wasn't going to think about that any more. He was far too old for that sort of schoolboy crush on his slightly older best friend.

He tapped out a fragment of their old soft-shoe routine from one of those vaudeville days, his shoes scuffing against the tile. Don laughed, and padded out the next four bars in his bare feet. Cosmo whirled around, singing what he could remember of the lyrics to the song - "My pretty Mimi, won't you come see me, I've been as good as I can, Whenever I hear ya, I wanna be near ya, I'll show you that I'll be your man . . ." Thank god, Don had grabbed a towel. Cosmo wasn't sure he could handle seeing that backside in motion, not the way Don did it.

They repeated the steps of that ancient routine, elaborating them with all the tricks they'd learned since then. The part in the middle, somewhere around "Oh, when I get you to my place, there'll be moonlight in your face, and starlight in your eyes" - god, that was such a sappy song for how up-tempo it was; Don even remembered the harmony - had originally been the trickiest part, with Don's feet flashing in between Cosmo's as they dodged around each other. This time, it was easy, and Don embroidered it with a couple of high kicks that almost but not quite brushed Cosmo's thighs. He responded with an acrobatic jump that made Don's eyebrows go up. "Oh, little Mimi . . . let me be . . . your maaaaaaaaan!" They slid into the finale, leapfrogging over the sinks; Cosmo stunt-crashed into the wall, finishing by falling in a heap. Don leaned against the wall, laughing at both of them. Cosmo reconsidered the wisdom of the crash ending; the floor was still wet, and some of it was seeping through his trousers.

Don hauled him up off the floor, holding him in a sort of one-armed embrace, grinning like a maniac. Cosmo realized what was about to happen too late to stop it, as Don upended the bucket over both their heads with his other hand.

Well, okay, it was funny. And he sort of needed a cold shower at that point, anyway.

Don didn't let go, and the soaking wet towel was barely covering anything. "Cosmo," he said, lolling his head back, "thanks. I needed that."

"Anytime, Don," breezed Cosmo. "Next time you're covered with mud, I'll just remember the old Oatmeal Dance Hall routine's the thing to perk you up." He tried to pull away again, and failed just as miserably.

"Seriously, Cos, have you seen the gossip rags this week? Half a dozen stories about how Lina and I nearly broke up during the filming of this last movie, and our torrid reunion near the end of the picture." He harrumphed. "At least you got a mention in one of them, the Radio Review, I think. 'Cosmo Brown, employee of Monumental Pictures, good friend and confidante of major movie star Don Lockwood.' Had a fuzzy shot of you getting out of the car."

"I think I remember that. Seemed like a nice girl, for a reporter." Cosmo declined to mention that he was probably the source of the rumor about him and Lina, too, although what he'd actually said had been perfectly true. Lina had been upset about her makeup, and when Don failed to be sufficiently soothing about it, she'd thrown a screaming fit on the second day of shooting that resulted in a great deal of shrubbery being thrown on both sides. By the time they wrapped, though, she was back to trying to get into Don's pants again. Well, okay, maybe that last part wasn't very professional, either, but it was par for the course for a movie starlet.

Don shook his head in disgust, the last few droplets flying from his hair. "I wish they'd print rumors about us having a love affair and call Lina my 'good friend' instead, for a change."

Cosmo froze. He knew he had to drop a joke, laugh it off, dissolve that last comment in good humor and let it melt away, but for some reason his mouth didn't want to work quite right. He was sure he looked ridiculous, eyes like saucers, but he couldn't break the spell.

Don looked at him with the oddest expression, something just a little more knowing than 'bemused'. "You okay there, Cosmo? I didn't hit you with the bucket, did I?"

He shook his head. His jaw worked, but his voicebox was still out of steam; it took another two tries before he managed to squeak out "I'm fine." The expression on Don's face continued to evolve. By the time it got to 'mischievous,' Cosmo realized he was doomed.

"Ever wonder," Don murmured in a much quieter voice, "what it would take to start a rumor?" Cosmo shook his head wildly. "I think I could guess," Don whispered, dropping the towel.

As his buddy's eyes went wide, Don curled the arm that still held him around his waist, leaned in, and planted a full romance-hero kiss directly on Cosmo's mouth. In return, Cosmo pressed his lips fiercely into Don's, wrapped both his arms around him, and hung on for dear life. He only hoped their friendship would survive the fact that one of them wasn't acting.


End file.
